#let jartylus month begin

[veritas-scribblings]

video - @jartylusmicrofics - words: 1,343 [explicit / NSFW]

[inspired by this post by @thatcoolguyeli]

The conference had been such a ‘drag’, as Barty would put it. Davide Bastelli, CEO of Bastelli Group, is a monolith of a man with impressively sculptured facial hair and little personality to speak of. He’s not so much grey, in any sense of the word. He’s more rough, chiselled slate stone—impressive to look at, expensive to purchase, but really that’s all. Even his accent, the lyrical way in which Italians speak that normally makes James a little weak at the knees, hadn’t been enough to counteract the aggressive boredom.

Actually, James had spent a ridiculous amount of the meeting trying to subdue his violent urges; a side effect, he thinks, of all the time he’s been spending around Barty. It had been around the one hour and fifty minute mark when James’s thoughts had taken a drastic swerve away from blood and gore and battered fists, courtesy of a text message from RegulusBarty.

There’s this game that Barty and Regulus like to play. It had started, Regulus says, when they were in school and he had admitted to Barty that he watches strangers simply existing and invents stories for them. Imagines who they are, their days and their lives, what adventures they’re going on and where they’re going on these adventures, and who they’re in love with and out of live with. And in his darker times, when they’ll die and how they’ll die and who they’ll leave behind.

Of course, Barty (being Barty) and taken this game and started to wonder what these strangers are like when they’re naked, when they’re having sex. What turns them on, what they’re freaks and unique kinks are, who they’ve recently had sex with, when they lost their virginity, what their O-face looks like, who would be their free pass.

James reckons that Bastelli is straight. As straight as an arrow, because no man that dull could possibly bend. It would be an insult to gays and lesbians and bisexuals and queers everywhere. Bastelli, James reckons, is a real sub in his sex life. There is no way he would wear the pants in any romantic dynamic. No man that tightly wound, that in control of himself, could ever continue to be so in bed. Bastelli for sure gets off on being dominated, and Barty and Regulus would have loved the challenge.

This is how Barty and Regulus had snared James. Because Barty had said to James that he strikes him as someone who is ‘vanilla in real life and an absolute freak in the sheets’ and had determinedly pursued confirmation. That’s Barty’s running theory: that the dullest people in real life are the filthiest in bed. James doesn’t think of himself as a vanilla sort of person, though he does like to think he’s a generous and creative lover.

He shrugs his jacket off, drops his bag by the door, stumbles over to the bed and falls face-first into the softness of the quilt and the sheets and the feather-down pillows. The Bastellis are filthy rich—Black Family Empire rich—and have put him up in the penthouse suite of what is likely a thousand-euros-plus-a-night luxury hotel in the heart of Milan. There is a fully stocked bar. A huge spa in the bathroom decked out with whirlpool features. A media room with a huge squashy couch and a thin-as-paper-big-as-the-wall television. A full kitchen with stainless steal premium appliances.

The bed is huge. King-sized. Enough room for James to comfortably fit three people, not that he has anyone to currently share it with. For the fourth time that afternoon, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out with a groan. The phone and the thought of what was in those messages being sent to him have plagued him all day. Ever since he had made the mistake of opening the first photo that Barty had sent using Regulus’s phone, and he’d seen Regulus spread out naked on their bed.

And the blood in James had rapidly drained south. And he’d had to quickly hide his phone, because he’d been sitting in the conference at the time right next to Bastelli’s personal assistant, who is nosy enough to have tried to sneak a glance.

James has all the plans of strangling Barty when he gets back, and not in the kinky sort of way either, because Barty would eat that shit up. It’ll be strangling in the ‘I’m going to actually murder you’ sense of the word. Because it’s day five, and James is tired and lonely and sexually frustrated. And Barty obviously knows this, because he’s spent the last five days sending James explicit photos with sentences like, ‘wish you were here’ and ‘thinking of you’.

And now James is ready to cut the business trip short and fly back home so he can join in, because he wantswantswants. Fuck the Bastelli luxury portfolio. James has other, more important, business to attend to.

It’s not a photo this time. It’s a video. James knows he shouldn’t open it; he probably should just delete it. Watching it will not solve his problem, nor will it do him any good. As it is, his trousers already feel so tight and, laying face down on the bed, the friction against his arousal is doing things for him. With a sigh, James flips over, toes off his shoes and socks and pulls his trousers off, discarding them by the foot of his bed. He reaches down to palm himself through his pants, a groan caught in his throat. He’s wanted to do this for hours now.

Realistically, James has always been the curious sort, the sort with impulse control issues. He thumbs the video open and is immediately greeted by the sound of skin rustling against a microphone. The movement of the camera is so shaky and blurry that James has no idea what’s going on—no, actually, he does—though he does recognise their bedroom.

When all the movement in the video stills, the phone having been rested on what’s likely the dresser, Barty gives him a shit-eating ‘cat who got the cream’ grin. He’s on all fours, staring into the camera, his erection full, glistening and hanging heavy between his legs. He’s sweaty and messy enough that James can tell they’ve been doing things for a while now. He can just imagine how it had all gone down: they’d been in the middle of something and either Barty or Regulus had stopped and said, ‘oh hey, let’s film this so James doesn’t feel left out.’ James wouldn’t put it past them to think that they’re actually being considerate.

In the video, Barty glances over his shoulder at Regulus, who is laid out on the bed behind him, his knees spread open so he can comfortably work his fingers into himself. Barty turns back to the camera and says with a breathy laugh, ‘we didn’t want you to feel left out.’

James quickly dumps the phone aside so he can loosen his tie and pull his shirt off. In his haste, he becomes tangled and tugs and struggles and squirms, and when he finally gets the shirt off his glasses go with it and he cries out in sheer frustration.

He can hear familiar noises coming from the phone. Regulus’s moans, which are always ‘from the depth of his chest’ deep, and Barty cursing up a storm, his pure and creative obscenities. James yanks his pants off and throws them onto the floor, and finally settles back against the pillows, his glasses securely in place so he can clearly see Barty on his knees, Regulus reaching behind to hold onto the headboard, Barty holding onto Regulus’s hips as he thrusts into him.

Lip caught between his teeth, James fists his leaking cock, works his hand up and down his length, squeezes firmly at the base because he knows he’s not going to last. The video is just over eight minutes long and James has every intention of seeing it through.